by Andy Farman
The new PM had obviously had his own ‘dream team’ in mind should he ever find himself in number ten, and he had quite obviously made some promises to those individuals. The unfortunate part was that whereas these academics could possibly have formed a fair to middling peacetime government, it wasn’t peacetime anymore.
The PMs intended candidate for the defence seat was a young woman with zero political or military experience but who made a lot of noise about women’s rights, in particular her objections to the ‘glass ceiling’ that prevented women being CEOs in industry or holding high office; this was someone who always forgot Margaret Thatcher. The young woman was to have been the PMs signal that he had no glass ceilings for talent as regards age or gender, however, it wasn’t lost on those in the know that the ‘young talent’s’ only obvious ability was in dropping her panties for powerful men who could open doors.
One insider had made the wry comment.
“Perhaps the PM thinks the Russian premier won’t nuke us…if he thinks she’d put out for him too?”
The minister was now enroute to Whale Island where the China operation was being run, but he had papers in his safe at his London house in Tooting Bec, papers that he had not expected to need until this post had suddenly become his.
His protection team rode in the Daimlers before and aft of his own, and although he had a police driver for his car, that man was dozing in the passenger seat after fourteen straight hours behind the wheel. Fuel shortages were staring to bite and local councils only ploughed and gritted one lane on essential routes, which, added to the state of the icy road network and blackouts, made their journey south long and tiring.
The minister assured the policeman that he himself drove a Daimler before insisting that they change over, after leaving the M25 motorway at junction 14. Aside from the assigned drivers, the protection officers were either ‘Response’ or ‘Basic’ class drivers; police regulations prevented them from driving vehicles over a certain horsepower whilst on duty, so the minister saw no other choice.
At the slow speeds they were forced by the conditions to hold to, the minister did not notice the differences between his own car and this one.
The journey from the motorway to the A3 dual carriageway was frustrating for the minister, and he was glad to see that the wide, straight surface of the A3 was slightly clearer courtesy of some grit on part of its lanes.
The long journey and tiredness made the minister irritated with the pace of the lead car, which he thought should have been taking advantage of the clear stretch, so putting his foot down he overtook it, forcing it to speed up. He did not switch off the radio when the speaker emitted a protest from his protection team, but he did turn it down.
On a gritted lane with an open road ahead of him, the minister relaxed a little and took notice of the darkened suburbs. Without the aid of lighting it was hard to recall where he was on a road he had driven on hundreds of times before. There were no street or route signs to assist the unfamiliar traveller, they had been removed in order that an invading force could not benefit from the directions they displayed. It was like suddenly becoming a stranger in your own hometown, he thought.
The clear road ceased as he approached the underpass below the Malden Road junction, a container lorry travelling a lot slower occupied the lane free of snow and ice. Grinding his teeth in irritation the minister brought his speed down and glanced at his watch, they were seriously behind time and he wanted to collect the papers and get back on the road to Portsmouth.
His frustration grew as the lorry slowed even more to negotiate the ramp out of the underpass, and with a quick glance in the side mirror he pulled to the right, having to fight the steering as the wheels went off gritted tarmac and onto the snow and ice. He was able to give the lorry a wide berth and regain the cleared lane, putting his foot down instinctively. Beyond the Morden Road junction is a long downhill stretch on the in-town route, and the cars speed grew quickly, as did the lorries behind them.
The lack of illumination and route signs almost made him miss the turn off for Tooting, in fact he was at the junction before realisation hit him and he steered sharply left onto the curving ramp which swept back and over the A3, to Bushey Road.
Bushey Road was not judged to be an essential route and after a few metres the road surface of the turn off was hard packed snow overlying a thick sheet of ice. Due to the harsh steering the minister had used getting on to the turn off, the Daimler was not yet balanced, there was still weight bearing on the rear offside wheel as the car encountered the snow, and it was travelling far too fast for the existing road conditions.
The Daimler he was driving differed greatly from production models, it was armoured for the protection of the principles it carried, and being far heavier its handling qualities were very different indeed.
As the back end started to slew on the ice, the minister under steered, not taking into account the cars extra weight. When that failed to do the trick he felt a spike of panic, and over steered, which sent the car sliding sideways across the road and through the crash barrier. The fall of forty feet, onto the dual carriageway they had only moments before left, caused mortal injuries to the minister and the policeman, but it was the impact of the container lorry, its brakes locked up and its trailer jack-knifing, that killed them.
Russia: 1655hrs, same day.
The radio programmes in Russia churned out an almost constant stream of classical music, traditional folk songs (of the patriotic ilk, of course), with rather vague and repetitive news reports. The news reported heroic yet non-specific deeds, and great advances into Western Europe without actually mentioning place names. Svetlana, who loved music, was becoming desperate for some other audible stimuli, even the god-awful gangsta rap would have been a change at the very least. She was slouched sideways in an armchair, one leg hooked over an arm and the other outstretched as she starred broodily out of the window. The old man was chopping wood outside whilst he listened to a jazz CD on Svetlana’s Walkman, she was not able to make use of it whilst she listened to the couples old radio and he had been charmingly grateful of the loaner, bowing and kissing her hand.
Patricia was in the kitchen helping the old woman prepare a meal, and Caroline had found paper and a pencil from somewhere, with which she was sketching the living room where she and the Russian girl were. It was a talent Patricia was not aware her pilot possessed, but Caroline had modestly declined to let her see the results. The atmosphere in the house was hard to take, tedium and uncertainly, plus a tension in the air that Patricia could feel on her skin, almost. Essential maintenance had been carried out twice thus far on the Nighthawk; Patricia had escaped to the landing site every other day to do systems and maintenance checks, stopping overnight in the forest with the Green Berets tasked with guarding the site. The long journey there and back held little attraction, but it was more of a change of scenery than the Russian girl, confined for twelve hours a day in the room where the radio lived. Although was apparent to all that there was something important she was listening for, the Russian girl had offered no explanation of exactly what it was that commanded her presence by the ancient, yet trusty device.
Those breaks from the house had in some way had some effect, on her return the strain was not so palpable and Caroline, who seemed the worst effected of the two Americans, was a little more chilled out but that faded before the arrival of the evening.
Rather than accompany Patricia on the maintenance runs Caroline had remained to keep Svetlana company, and as the Playboy Pair, as Pat thought of them, had struck up a good friendship whilst back in Scotland, Pat left her to it.
At just after noon, Svetlana suddenly sat bolt upright before standing and grinning.
“Okay, one volunteer to accompany me on an excursion?”
The prospect of actually doing something had brought almost instantaneous reactions from the aircrew, but the bombardier/navigator was beaten by the pilot to the punch by a hair.
Svetlana grin
ned slyly at Caroline’s smug expression, and as she left to run a bath, added.
“You haven’t seen the uniform of the day yet…follow me!”
The bathroom fittings were rather elderly, dating back to the original construction. The wood fired boiler, which served the house, was undersize and the result was a less than piping hot, half-filled tub, once Caroline had done the honours. She was attempting to coax the bar of soap into producing some lather when there was a slight commotion outside the door.
The old man had brought up towels to leave outside the door; he was straightening up, still puffing away on his pipe when Svetlana left her room, bound for the bathroom.
He was supposed to be exhaling a lung full of smoke at that exact instant, but involuntarily inhaled midway through the process. In all his married life he had never once seen his own wife naked, night clothes had always preserved her modesty, and now here in the latter years of his life a beautiful young woman had appeared, as naked as a jay bird striding unabashed towards him.
Svetlana helped him to his feet, thumping him on the back in order to aid the intake of oxygen once more, and then slipped into the bathroom still giving solicitous advice about not overdoing things and cutting down on his smoking.
Caroline did not consider herself prudish, individual shower stalls were not fitted as standard in USAF accommodation, yet when the naked Russian girl stuck a toe into the water she was occupying, clearly with the intention of joining her she felt somewhat uncomfortable. It was also the first time she had seen her naked, and it gave her an annoying feeling of inferiority even though she knew she had no reason to feel like that. Glancing down briefly at herself, she also felt rather overdressed compared to the Russian’s follicle free zone.
“Sorry Caroline, no time to heat more water, budge up…don’t worry, I promise not to pee!”
The American curled her legs up, relinquishing half the territory but Svetlana stepped in and merely rested on her knees at the free end.
“What was going on out there?” Caroline enquired, indicating the bathroom door with a nod of her head.
“Oh, the old ladies husband had a bit of a turn…can’t for the life of me think why!”
A guffaw burst from Caroline.
“Don’t you have any inhibitions?” It was meant as a joke but she was surprised at the answer, delivered in an offhand and rather matter-of-fact manner.
“Kind of hard to whore for your country and have guilt trips.”
She smiled at the pilot as she said it, but kept silent what was now in her mind. The fact that she was training for a year as a Sparrow before the possibility of escape had come about. A year where she quite literally saw everything did everything… and got marked on it for technique and artistic interpretation. It hadn’t all been sex though; language coaches had taught her to speak unaccented English, retired ballerinas had tutored her in grace of movement along with former models, until she became poetry in motion whether on a dance floor or merely walking down the street. Psychologist’s specialising in manipulation taught the students, there was a class every single day. She learnt from experts how to strip, how to pole dance, to lap dance and how also to waltz and tango with elegance. Art appreciation, current affairs and music lessons were also on the syllabus, it was a cultural ‘dressing up to dress down’ course, designed to produce someone who could adapt to any number of desired roles, from palace courtesan to street walker. These lessons were spaced between live demonstrations and porn movies, followed by homework with a talented and experienced partner but with tutors watching and making notes, ticking or crossing boxes.
The failure rate amongst the ‘students’ had been however on the low side, which was surprising as virtually everyone there had been pressed into the service, and this was probably due to a pretty seventeen year old blond who had refused point blank to cooperate from day one. The girl had been denied food or sleep in order to persuade her otherwise, but after four days her will had been unbroken, so the chief instructor had called all the students outside into the rear courtyard before the start of the fifth days lessons. The chief instructor was already awaiting them there as they filed out, a shotgun resting across his forearm, broken so as to show its barrels were empty. About his shoulders he had worn an ammunition belt with a dozen cartridges sat in the loops, there shiny brass ends gleaming against the polish of the tooled leather. The blond had been called forward to stand a dozen feet to his side, ordered to strip and then face the remainder, and all the time the man had spoken in a clear but neutral tone about the unacceptability of anything but total obedience. Svetlana had thought it to be a scare tactic, even after he carefully slipped a cartridge into each breech and closed the weapon with a sudden flourish, and she could still remember the sound it had made, the solid clunk as the locking levers had engaged. At the end of his speech he had said firmly.
“You will obey!” and then turning, he’d raised the weapon and fired both barrels into the side of the blond girls head. He repeated the phrase as he ejected the spent cartridges and loaded fresh ones, aiming at the torso on the ground, and firing into it again and again, each time at a different part of the body until all the cartridges were gone. Several of the girls had thrown up during the display of calculated destruction, two had fainted and Svetlana, who had tried to turn away, had been grabbed by the hair by an instructor and forced to watch.
The ground rules had been firmly laid out that morning, but two other girls had fallen by the wayside that year, one had tried to run away and one suffered a breakdown. They had disappeared in the night and all signs of their existence had been gone before the coming of dawn. No one for one moment believed that either girl had been simply thrown out for failing. Other, more subtle methods, were also used to provide the proper motivation; such as on the wall of the gymnasium, where there was displayed a poster depicting an empty cartridge case, and beside it the words ‘Cellulite kills’.
From time to time she was taken into the city, as were all the students, accompanied of course by tutors, and given a key to an apartment or hotel room, after which she would have to pick up someone of the instructors choosing, usually in a nightclub or hotel bar and seduce them back to the room. From start to finish her efforts would be watched, and recorded on hidden monitors, and a debrief would take place the next day. These were the 'test nights’ and in the beginning for Svetlana they were the worst. The targets were never terribly attractive physical specimens, giving them a hunk or a beauty to get into bed would have been too easy on the students. So various overweight, hairy, sweaty or downright ugly individuals got to find that the Christmas to end all Christmas’s, had for them come early. Svetlana had come so close to failing after one disastrous evening when she had fled from a hotel room, still only half undressed and unable to go through with the expected act. However, one of the demonstrators who lived and worked in the training facility had taken her to one side the next day and told her the secret. In order to survive, in order to reach old age without being disappeared or going insane, she had to be successful in the role chosen for her. In order to succeed in that then she had to be 100% convincing, and the only way for that to happen was for her to enjoy what she was doing. Acting out the role, no matter how well, was not sufficient to reach the ultimate goal of dying of old age whilst still of sound mind. Svetlana had listened well to what the demonstrator had called a form self-hypnotism, but who admitted was really achieving a state of mind that could be put on at will, like a suit of clothes, and put away again afterwards.
The Sparrow School was not a totally unforgiving place; everyone was allowed one failure on the test nights, just one. A week after the disaster Svetlana had again been taken into Moscow, to a club popular with the capitols young and rich, and visiting western businessmen who came to ogle at young, scantily clad bodies on its dance floor. There was a book running amongst the staff of the school, and the odds lay against Svetlana’s ‘disappearing’ after this night was high. The tutor with the task of selec
ting her partner for the night had a week’s wages bet on her failing, and she selected for Svetlana an overweight German businessman in his late thirties, with halitosis and impressive clusters of ginger hair sprouting from each nostril and from within each ear. If she had expected Svetlana to balk at the task then she was disappointed, for from the moment she left the tutors sides she was a different person. With steadily falling spirits the tutor had observed her charges manner on the dance floor as she’d gone about catching the targets attention, this was definitely not the pitifully pathetic teenager who had sobbed quietly on the journey back to the school a week before. Six hours later the unconsciously pronounced swing of Svetlana’s hips as she’d left the hotel room, and the twinkle in her eyes had confirmed what the tutor and her colleagues had witnessed on the hotel room monitors, a star had been born.
So here I am again, she thought as she stepped from the bath to wash her long hair in the basin. I have come full circle, and it is almost time to wear…no, to become that other person once more.
Patricia had found Caroline’s sketches and was looking through them when she heard the bathroom door open; she hurriedly tucked them away behind Caroline’s armchair and went upstairs. In the room the Russian girl used, tucked away on its own at the rear of the house, she found Svetlana sorting through the contents of a trunk brought from Moscow by their contact on the first night. She knew for a fact each item fit her; she just needed something for the American. She smiled widely at Patricia when she appeared, Svetlana’s characteristic exuberance had returned and she hissed triumphantly.
“Yessss!” when she found what she had been seeking. Dropping her towel she extracted a pair of suede leather thigh length boots, before pulling on a matching number that tied up down both flanks. Its designer had intended it to be a top, to go over a blouse, skirt or jeans, but the Russian girl wore it on its own as a mini dress and as anyone observing from the side could see, she wore nothing beneath it.